


sometimes i can imagine entire lifetimes of turning around to face you (over and over and over)

by majesdane



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-25
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU. | <i>The five times that Emily Fitch and Naomi Campbell might have fallen in love.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes i can imagine entire lifetimes of turning around to face you (over and over and over)

  
in another dimension this is exactly what's happening.  
i like the idea of different theres and elsewheres.  
here, when i say _i never want to be without you_ ,  
somewhere else i am saying, _i never want to be without you again_.  
and when i touch you in each of the places we meet  
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying and resurrected.  
when i don't touch you, it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever.  
\-- bob hicok, _other lives and dimensions and finally a love poem_

 

 

 

**the first time.**

 

The first thing Emily notices is the blue of her eyes.

They're almost gray-blue like in colour, and it makes Emily think of marble under water. Cold, but pretty to look at. She's sat across from the girl in the university library trying to study for her upcoming politics exam, but it's almost impossible to do since she keeps getting distracted. It's such a lazy Sunday afternoon, and the sun pouring in through the high windows makes her warm and sleepy.

It doesn't help that there's a rather beautiful girl only a few feet away; Emily's been periodically glancing at her since she came in and sat down, watching her over the top of her politics book. The girl hasn't moved at all since one o'clock when she first arrived; she's had her nose buried in a history book that looks well ancient and boring.

She's got perfect bottle-blond hair; it falls around her face, down along her shoulders, in gentle curls. She keeps having to tuck a loose strand behind her ear; it falls in her eyes every so often, and Emily finds her fingers itching to brush it away for her.

But those eyes. Those piercing, brilliant eyes.

Emily thinks about saying something -- anything, but her mouth remains closed; it's suddenly a foreign thing to her; she can't find it in herself to speak. She struggles against herself, against her indecisiveness and shyness, and feels her will slipping.

You've been watching me all afternoon, the girl says, suddenly, looking up, and it's only then when Emily's realises been staring, the book in her lap completely forgotten about.

Sorry! Sorry, she says quickly and feels her face grow hot with embarrassment.

It's okay, the girl says, and looks back down at her book, toying with the corner of one of the pages, bending it backwards and over. I'm sure that anything is more interesting than that book you've been reading; she looks pointedly at the worn out politics textbook in Emily's lap. And then her eyes move back up, meet Emily's gaze squarely.

(Those brilliant, brilliant eyes.)

As it turns out, they live in the same freshers hall. Emily doesn't know how she hasn't noticed the girl (whose name she still doesn't know; the girl had smiled and left before Emily could manage to begin introductions) until now, especially because she's a foot taller than most of the other girls in the hall and her bright blond hair makes her stand out even more.

She runs into her again nearly a two weeks later. The girl's fresh from the shower, a royal blue towel wrapped around her tightly, wet hair clinging to her face and shoulders. Emily feels her heart skip a beat and she forces herself to look away, to stare at the ground as they pass each other.

It's so strange, fancying a girl whose name she doesn't even know, so she asks around until someone can tell her who the girl is. Naomi Campbell is her name, Emily learns, and she smiles a bit at the ridiculousness of it. But it's nice -- _Naomi_. She says the name quietly to herself, letting it roll off her tongue. She says it again, louder, sat in her room and staring out the window at the morning sky.

(Naomi Naomi Naomi.)

The library becomes their unofficial meeting place. They've hardly exchanged two words between each other since the first time they met, but it never feels awkward, when they sit there in silence on warm Sunday afternoons, doing whatever coursework they're meant to be doing. It feels comfortable. Natural, almost, Emily thinks, and she can't stop herself from smiling at the thought.

What are you thinking about? Naomi says, one day, resting her book upside down on the arm of her chair.

Emily wants to say, You. Instead she doesn't say anything, just offers up a slight smile, over the top of her book. Nothing, she says, finally, when Naomi doesn't look away. And then, I'm just thinking about how we've never properly introduced ourselves, is all.

I'm Naomi, Naomi says, after a minute, leaning forward and resting her hands in her chin. Naomi Campbell.

(I know, Emily wants to say.)

I'm Emily Fitch.

I know, Naomi says, with a small laugh, and Emily looks at her, curious. It's written along the pages of your book, yeah? Naomi explains, gesturing towards it, and Emily feels monumentally stupid, because of course she'd written it there when she'd bought it, but she'd completely forgotten about it.

Clever, Emily says, with a blush and a smile.

Naomi smiles back.

(It feels like a beginning.)

 

;;

 

**the second time.**

 

They meet completely by accident.

The girl's entering the coffee shop just as Naomi's leaving, and of course, because she's having just that kind of day, they knock into each other hard enough so that Naomi drops the cup she'd been holding. It falls to the ground, exploding with a tiny splash as it hits the pavement; some of it splatters near the bottom of Naomi's suit trousers, leaving tiny, dark stains.

The girl begins to apologize profusely, but Naomi waves her off impatiently; she'll just go back to work, sans caffeine. The girl looks at her with large, brown eyes, as if she's waiting for Naomi to say something. Naomi makes a big show about pulling out her Blackberry, and the girl mumbles another sorry before slipping past her and into the shop.

She's in a bad mood for the rest of the afternoon, but later that evening she remember those eyes, and the soft, throaty way that girl had of speaking; she can still hear her _sorry_ when she closes her eyes to fall asleep, the telly in her bedroom droning on quietly in the background.

(She won't ever see her again.)

Red hair, Naomi thinks, sat at one of the tables near the window overlooking the street, in the same shop two weeks later. The girl's standing in line waiting to give her order, and Naomi feels herself drawn to her. She hadn't noticed how red the girl's hair had been before: bright and bold and like blood, almost. Striking. The girl must come here fairly often then, Naomi concludes, since she's seen her twice now in only a few weeks, and London is a big enough place that you usually don't run into the same stranger twice.

(She can't look away.)

At night, sometimes, she dreams of kissing her.

She can see, in her mind, the girl saying _sorry_ , staring at her with dark, eager eyes, hair stark in colour against her pale skin. Naomi imagines leaning forward, threading her fingers through that red, red hair and pulling the girl in for a kiss. Sometimes they're pressed against the wall in a dark corner, other times in front of the shop. Naomi imagines the girl up on tip-toes, leaning against her every so lightly, hands on Naomi's back.

It's a problem; she doesn't even know this girl's name.

Naomi sees the girl three times more in the next month. Each day is becoming more difficult than the last; she finds herself spending all her lunch time at the shop, just waiting for the girl to come in. This is it, she thinks every day, settling down into her seat with a cup of tea; today she'll come in and I'll introduce myself and then we'll --

Well, she doesn't quite know what comes after that.

Once, on the fourth time their paths cross, the girl looks over, catches Naomi staring. Their eyes meet; Naomi is the one who looks away first. When she chances another look up at the girl, over the top of her newspaper, the girl is still looking at her. She's got a dazed expression on her face, like she isn't sure of what's just happened.

(Hello, Naomi imagines herself saying, pushing herself up from the table and introducing herself to the girl. Hello, I'm Naomi Campbell.)

The girl sits down at Naomi's table, on the seventh time they meet.

She just sits right down, out of the blue, and Naomi almost hyperventilates when it happens, because it was one thing, to look and wish and hope that maybe one day she could gather the courage to actually go talk to the stranger with chocolate brown eyes and a fringe that reminds Naomi of the leaves turning colour in Autumn. It was another thing entirely for the girl to be right fucking _there_ , only an arms length away and looking at Naomi expectantly.

Hi, Naomi says weakly, and curses the blush she can feel creeping into her cheeks. I'm Naomi Campbell.

The girl smiles at her. Emily.

I've seen you around here before, Naomi says, feeling like the air is poison and her lungs are closing up.

Emily reaches across the table, her hand settling heavily on top of Naomi's. Their eyes meet across the distance between them and all the pretty things that Naomi had imagined saying, all her witty one-liners and clever words, vanish, in that instant. She can't explain it, how it suddenly feels like everything has been narrowed down to this one point in time. Like everything has just finally come together, fallen into place.

Yeah, Emily says. I've seen you too.

 

;;

 

**the third time.**

 

I wish I'd known you when I was younger, Emily sighs as Naomi curls up behind her, pressing lingering kisses on Emily's shoulder. She reaches forward, over Emily, bringing their hands together; Emily makes a small sound of contentment, brings their joined hands up to her mouth, kissing Naomi's knuckles.

Emily can feel Naomi smiling against her shoulder, and her voice sounds heavy with sleep when she says, Well, it wouldn't be the same, would it? If I'd known you back then, in college or university. If we'd known each other -- if we'd been like _this_ when we were younger -- well, we probably wouldn't be _here_ at all, would we?

Emily kisses the back of Naomi's hand. I wouldn't like to think that. No, I wouldn't at all.

The morning sun falls in waves across the bed; Emily can hear the sound of traffic and people on the streets below, can hear the faint strands of music drifting down from the flat above theirs, slow and sweet, and it makes Emily think of walking along the shores of Brighton with Naomi, of pressing a kiss to the corner to Naomi's mouth and tasting strawberry ice cream, of lying on the grass at night in the country and looking up and counting the stars.

You're lovely, she murmurs against Naomi's wrist, kissing it as well.

 

;;

 

**the fourth time.**

 

This is how she sees Emily:

Lying down in bed, her hair stark red against the eggshell white pillow case, a thin sheet draped loosely over her body, twisted and folded along her curves. In her sleep she sighs, murmurs something indeterminable. There is the palest of flushes to her cheeks, light pink and not quite enough to be startling. Her body is sprawled out, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. A hint of a smile plays across her lips; she's dreaming of something wonderful.

Or flat on her back half-covered by leaves, from jumping into a pile of them, all sorts of red and yellow and orange in hue. She sees Emily laughing, tipping her head back, mouth open in a grin, throwing handfuls of leaves up into the air and watching them fall all around her, like confetti at a parade. Emily lies there, partly buried in leaves, stretched out in the afternoon sunlight, eyes closed. She turns, eyes opening slowly, dark and intense; she stares at Naomi with them.

Or there is Emily in the snow, falling, falling, and then landing in a flurry of white powder. Her cheeks are flushed almost bright enough to match her hair, which is tucked up under her hood, scarf wrapped half-heartedly around her neck, not doing a thing to keep her warm. She wriggles her arms, legs, makes an angel in the snow, presses her head back against the ground and opens her mouth to try and catch snowflakes on her tongue, and the noises of the city quietly fade away, until all that's left is the sound of the wind.

What were you dreaming of? Emily asks, kissing her awake, propped up on one elbow, watching her, cherry red hair falling into her eyes.

You, Naomi says, and presses her back down against the mattress, limbs tangling together, the sheets fluttering quietly to the ground.

 

;;

 

**the fifth time.**

 

It starts with a look.

Emily looks across the rows of desks, and Naomi looks right back, and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds. It feels like eternity to Emily, whose breath catches at the sight of her; short, bleached hair, pale skin, and soft eyes the colour of dove feathers. It's too much; she has to look away. But the image is burned in her mind, Naomi's lips twitching up into a small smile, looking at her from across the room, and she wants so badly to look again, but she knows she can't do that.

(Not _today_ , anyway, but Emily knows she'll look again tomorrow and the day after that and she doesn't know when she'll stop looking.)

She's keeping a mental log of everything about Naomi, like the way her hair shines in the afternoon sunlight as it pours through the windows in their History class; the slope of her neck, when she stretches back; the length of her legs and how their royal blue school-kit skirt looks remarkably short when she wears it; the way even her frown is pretty, when she narrows her eyes and it's obvious she's working hard to not stand up and tell their teacher off.

In that blissful, sleepy moment right before she falls asleep each evening, she thinks of Naomi. She thinks about running her hands through Naomi's hair, tracing along her collarbone with the lightest of touches, pulling Naomi in by her tie and kissing her; she imagines a million different scenarios, each seemingly more ridiculous and beautiful than the last.

Maybe, she thinks. Maybe.

(And it's that maybe that keeps her hoping and waiting, because she can't allow herself to think otherwise. And surely it must have meant something then, when their eyes met, and it felt like time had slowed to an infinitely slow pace and all the oxygen had been completely sucked from the room.)

She wants to say, I've loved you since the first moment that I saw you.

Instead she says, I know you; you're Naomi Campbell. You were in my my History class three years ago.

Naomi laughs; it takes Emily a moment to realize it's the first time she's ever heard Naomi do that. You remembered me because of my name, right? That's always how everyone remembers me; they forget everything else. She laughs again, quieter this time, and takes another swig of vodka from the bottle she's been so desperately clutching.

No, Emily tells her, meeting her eyes. That's not why I remembered you.

(She wills Naomi to understand.)

Oh, Naomi says softly after a minute, and her eyes have this far away look to them. Oh.

And suddenly it's like the bed they're sat on is two sizes too small, and Emily looks down to see that their hands are side-by-side, almost nearly touching, and she has to stop herself from reaching forward and covering Naomi's hand with her own. And surely, _surely_ Naomi must feel it too, because she's gone quiet and when Emily looks up, Naomi's staring at her.

It's too much, always too much; Emily leans forward and closes the space between them and kisses her.

Naomi hesitates for just a moment -- a moment, and then she's pushing back into the kiss; gently at first, then a bit more forcefully. Emily's fingers knit into the front of her top and pull Naomi in closer. And the kiss probably doesn't last longer than a few seconds, but to Emily it feels like an eternity. Naomi's lips pressed against hers, her hands settling on Emily's hips uncertainly, tasting of vodka and smoke and chocolate.

This is it, Emily thinks. This is it.


End file.
